Goat named Negro

 It was kind. And smelled like grass.

And then it struggled while they slit its throat.

They punctured its chest where the heart should be. Wails that sounded like curses and begging.

Through its panic and adrenaline-fueled anger, life slowly drains as it blood spills.

A strong slash of the machete sliced its neck, opening its red flesh. Blood runs down. Didn't splash or sputter, simply like a quiet stream, it runs dripping down the plastic white bucket.

I saw the contents of its neck, innards almost falling, held by its muscles, ligaments, and bones. It almost seems human. Still breathing, weakening, and slowly being silenced.

The blood it shed was made as an offering. Simply sprinkle it over the gardens by the side of the house.

The life of an innocent offered for peace. 

Life sacrificed for blessings.

Blood shed for sustenance.

It has always been kind and its meat tasted a little bit cleaner with grass.